


The Cradle of Your Soul

by JasperMoar



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: AU of an AU, For reasons, I genuinely don't know how to tag this without spoiling things that are planned but not written, Jim explores the Enterprise, Jim from another universe gets shunted into the AOS, M/M, To clarify: the stillbirth happens 'on screen' so to speak, it's briefly depicted, reasons that will become relevant eventually, where THAT Jim was stillborn so doesn't exist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-07-28 00:06:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16230098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JasperMoar/pseuds/JasperMoar
Summary: He hides in the corn fields as the sky grows dark, staring up at the stars just as he’s done all his life. He doesn’t cry, because he’s twenty one, god damnit, but it’s a near thing. He crosses his arms behind his head and just stares up at the sky as the crickets sing and the nightbirds call.“I’ll be up there someday,” he says, and the words fall flat on even his ears. “Fuck.”Jim takes another drink from the bottle he’d nicked on his way out. He pretends he can see the Apollo 11, tracks the imaginary spot of light with one finger.What he doesn’t expect is a light to track him back.





	1. Wrap Your Fingers 'Round My Thumb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's currently rated mature, because eventually there's going to be at least one sex scene. I've got the Pon Farr scene already written up XD So when that gets posted farther down the line, the rating will be upped to Explicit.
> 
> Also, understand that this won't be regularly updated. I've got two ongoing fics already in the works, so these three are all gonna be vying for my attention.
> 
> Title taken from Small Bump, by Ed Sheeran.

As George Kirk flies his ship into Nero’s vessel, Winona Kirk gives birth to a tiny, brown-eyed baby boy. He never takes a breath. 

“He’s beautiful,” she tells her husband, eyes full of tears as she holds the unmoving bundle in her arms.

“Why isn’t he crying?” George gasps over the comm, and Winona closes her eyes.

“He’s just- quiet. He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, George.”

“What should we name him?”

“I was thinking we name him after your father.”

“Tiberius? No. No, we’ll name him after yours. We’ll call him Jim.”

Winona strokes a finger over silent lips.

“Jim.”


	2. The Longest Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Ashland's Song, by Peter Hollens.

As George Kirk leaps into the burning warehouse once more, dragging person after person from the flames with the rest of Riverside’s volunteer fire department, Winona Kirk paces their bedroom, panting as the midwife holds her hand.

“That’s it. Thata girl,” Nurse Raighley soothes. “Let’s have another lie-down, see how baby’s doing?”

Winona’s labor has been long, unusually so for a second child. Sam had come so quick, but this little one- he or she, whatever it is, they’re taking their time.

Winona watches her midwife’s face carefully as Nurse Raighley presses the stethoscope to her round belly, moving the cold metal here and there.

“Still nothing? Oooough,” Winona groans, and the midwife soothes her through the contraction. Her voice is high and hysterical. 

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Kirk. It isn’t useless to keep your hopes up, but- no. I still don’t hear a heartbeat.” The room is quiet for a moment as Winona processes what her midwife says, until Nurse Raighley snaps back into action. “Alright, here. Bring your legs up to your rear- yes, like that. It looks-” She feels between Winona’s legs with gloved fingers. “- like you’re fully dilated. Congratulations, Winona. It’s time to push.”

The door opens, and Winona hears her mother shooing Sam out of the way. After all, a birthing room is no place for little boys. 

“Mom,” she gasps, reaching out. Ruby Davis hurries to her daughter’s side and takes her hand as the midwife murmurs encouragement. “She can’t- There’s no heartbeat.”

Ruby’s hand rubs soothingly over Winona’s.

“Nothing we can do about that now, Winnie. Come on, there’s my strong girl. Listen to the nurse.”

It takes another hour, but with a gush of liquid tinged in blood, Winona Kirk delivers a tiny, blue-eyed baby boy. Nurse Raleigh clamps and cuts the cord, wrapping the infant in the clean blanket Ruby provides, and she rubs at the boy’s chest.

“He’s beautiful,” Ruby says, softly.

“Why isn’t he crying?” Winona demands weakly, trying to lift herself up to see. “He should be crying!”

“Come on, baby. Come on,” the nurse murmurs. “Come on. Time to meet the world.”

The infant gasps, and from his tiny lungs comes the most beautiful sound Winona’s ever heard.

He cries.


	3. Tick Tick Tick Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from The Captain and the Hourglass by Laura Marling.
> 
> And yes, I know Sputnik was launched in 1957 and the moon landing was in 1969, but I fudged dates a little to suit my needs.

James T. Kirk is a precocious child, much to his stepfather’s consternation. He is two when his mother remarries, and the Kirk family farm becomes the Hart family farm. In a rare decision for a woman of the 1940s, Winona Kirk does not become Winona Hart, and her two boys remain Kirks as well. Frank accepts this, at first, but when Winona leaves to become an army nurse for the war effort overseas, he resents the two Kirk boys left behind.

Jim’s favorite words are ‘what’, ‘why’, and ‘how’. Why does the sky turn pink in the mornings? What makes Gramma Ruby’s cake rise? How does a baby chicken get inside the egg?

When Jim sits on the porch at night, when he’s four years old and knows he ought to be in bed, he looks up at the stars and decides there’s another word he likes too. 

Who?

Who else lives up there? 

Frank laughs at him and pushes him around when Jim asks about the people in the stars.

“What, little green men? Grow up, Jimmy. There’s no such thing as aliens.” 

Mom sends Jim a real paperback book, every year for his birthday and every year for Christmas. She doesn’t come home much, but she knows Jim, and she knows what Jim likes. She sends him the Naked Sun, although Frank almost confiscates that one, since the title has the word ‘naked’ in it, and Jim is only eight at the time. She sends him the Martian Chronicles, and I, Robot, and so many other besides. Jim has a small shelf made of spare bricks and 2x4s dedicated to the books she sends him, and each and every one is dog-eared and thumb-worn. 

News comes to Riverside in 1952, that the Soviets have a satellite in space. Jim steals one of the papers and greedily reads, and every night for the next week he sits out in the corn fields, staring up into the stars. 

Someday, he decides, I’ll be up there too.

Yuri Gagarin becomes the first man in space two years later, and Jim Kirk _knows_ he’s destined for the sky. Frank likes to take his birthday and Christmas money, but Jim starts hiding coins underneath the loose floorboard in his room. A spaceman needs to be smart, he decides, and smart people grow up and go to universities, like the one Mr. Grant who teaches science went to. 

Frank pulls Jim out of school when he’s fifteen, just like he did with Sam before him, only Sam hasn’t lived in Riverside since Jim was ten. He picked up and left one day, and Jim had followed him as far as the town’s limits before stopping and watching, as his brother walked and walked and walked. To California maybe, he said. Or New York. Where Mom still works as a hospital matron.

Jim likes to think Sam found Mom, but Frank says Sam probably died on the side of the road somewhere. 

Work in the fields is tough, but Jim is strong, and young, and his family has worked the farm for four generations now. But he still looks up at the sky, watches his beloved moon, gazes into the tempting stars.

Jim continues on with his school lessons, because Mr. Grant and Mrs. Murdock and Mrs. Lewis like him, and let him come to their homes for an hour every night, where they teach him and give him things to read when he goes home. Mr. Grant even helps Jim make lacquer that glows in the dark, when he asks. Jim is seventeen, and he paints the ceiling of his bedroom to match the stars. 

At eighteen, Jim finds a job at the local mechanic’s, where he fixes tractors and trucks and numerous other little things besides. He still lives in Frank’s house, and Frank demands his wages as rent. Jim hides one third of everything he earns beneath the floorboard, and hands over the other two thirds. He still dreams of going to a university somewhere, but with every year that passes, that dream seems to slip farther and farther away. Jim grows up, and he grows angry. 

It might not be legal for anyone under nineteen to drink in Iowa, but Riverside grows corn, and corn turns to whiskey, and Riverside is small. Jim learns to like the drink, and he learns to fight in the town’s one bar. He develops a reputation among his peers, and he maintains it with pride.

“I’m meant for the stars,” he murmurs to himself as he counts the money he has stashed. There’s not much, but it might do to take him to Ames, set him up with some sort of lodging, and he knows he’s a hard worker. He can pay his way through college, he’s sure.

But then, there comes the news. They’re going to put a man on the moon. They’re going to put a man on the _moon_.

Jim thinks long and hard, but with a month left until the launch, he takes a portion of the coins he’s saved up, and he buys the TV sitting in Mr. White’s store window. It’s small, and heavy, and the sound crackles, but Jim’s going to watch a man on the _moon_!

Frank grumbles when Jim sets the TV up in the living room, but when Jim climbs up onto the roof and sets up the antenna, he comes back to find Frank already turning the dial, searching to see what stations they can get in Riverside. 

It’s 1961, and Jim watches with Frank as the Apollo 11 blasts off. A reporter narrates the goings on, and Jim leans forward, eyes wide and glistening. 

“I’m going to be one of those guys, someday,” he announces. Frank snorts.

“Oh come _on_ , Jimmy. Grow up already. It takes a special kind of man to do that.” He gestures to the small screen with his bottle. “And you and me? We aren’t special. We’re corn farmers. The closest you’re ever gonna get to Buzz is buzzed.” He sloshes the beer around to emphasize. 

Jim grits his teeth and turns his attention back to the TV. 

Four days later, Jim returns home from work, nearly vibrating out of his skin with excitement. Today’s the day. The day a man sets foot on the moon. 

He and Frank fight an hour before the broadcast is scheduled. Jim doesn’t even remember what it was about anymore, just that Frank had ended up throwing his beer bottle, and that the bottle had smashed through the TV screen like it was nothing more than thin ice on water.

“Now look what you made me do!” Frank had roared. Jim had been frozen, speechless. Just like that, the moon landing was taken from him. Just like that, the money he could have spent reaching Ames goes to waste.

He hides in the corn fields as the sky grows dark, staring up at the stars just as he’s done all his life. He doesn’t cry, because he’s twenty one, god damnit, but it’s a near thing. He crosses his arms behind his head and just stares up at the sky as the crickets sing and the nightbirds call. 

“I’ll be up there someday,” he says, and the words fall flat on even his ears. “Fuck.”

Jim takes another drink from the bottle he’d nicked on his way out. He pretends he can see the Apollo 11, tracks the imaginary spot of light with one finger. 

What he doesn’t expect is a light to track him back. 

Jim sways his hand side to side, brow furrowing as a speck of light follows the path of his finger. Slowly it grows brighter, comes closer, and Jim lets his hand drop, rising to his feet. With wide blue eyes, he watches as one of the stars detaches itself from the heavens and comes floating down, down, down to drift placidly not ten feet away from him. Jim cocks his head, eyeing the light with bright curiosity. 

“Hello,” he greets without fear, creeping closer. It takes considerable effort for Jim to remain on his feet, his head swimming from the whiskey. “What are you?”

The light makes no sound in response. Instead, it drifts languidly from place to place, gently here and gently there. Jim can’t resist. He reaches out to touch the light, and when he does, it feels like home.

Golden sparkles like a million fireflies swirl around him, and Jim laughs. The lights spin faster and faster, and there’s the strangest feeling of _flying_.

When Jim can once more see anything but gold light, he finds himself standing on a round, silver platform studded with round, blue plates. People in red, gold, and blue stare at him from across the room, and Jim frowns. This is- not right. He was in Iowa, right? His limbs feel heavy, and dark spots swim before Jim’s eyes.

“Identify yourself,” someone demands, and Jim collapses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment! Kudos! Bookmark!
> 
> More importantly, stay tuned for chapter 4, in which country hick Jim gets to meet our favorite bridge crew.


	4. Far Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Far Away by Ingrid Michaelson. 
> 
> Here's 6052 words because I'm impatient and have no impulse control and really want to show you more of what this story could be.
> 
> This white person is trying to write someone who grew up when racism was A-OK, while not making him racist, and giving him room to learn what is and is not okay in regards to talking to, with, and about people who are not white. I will never intentionally use a slur for a person who is not white, and I will definitely accept _constructive_ criticism on how to handle this characterization while it’s relevant. Just wanted to get that out there in case I make some sort of misstep. It's not a theme, but if it comes up, please talk to me rather than attempting to eviscerate me.  
>  A similar thing goes for LGBT people and having a character who grew up when it was a criminal offense in America navigate those interactions. But I may use slurs for LGBT+ people, because that’s a community I am actually a part of, and I feel like when I use words relevant to me on my own terms, they aren't as powerful when I encounter them in the general world. Probably won’t use any of the bad ones, but if it happens I’ll put a warning in the heading note.
> 
> Also I'm from the south, so before you start getting on me for my obscene contractions, Bones is my spirit animal and I will write his dialogue how I please.

Jim wakes up feeling well-rested and comfortable, although his mouth is a little dry. This immediately puts him on-edge, because not once has he ever experienced a whiskey hangover this pleasant.

He opens his eyes, blinks, stares up at the snow-white ceiling. Huh. 

Carefully, Jim heaves himself into sitting up, which pools the white sheets around his waist. His clothes are gone, replaced by some sort of nightgown- white with pastel dots, like the fancy Easter eggs you see in the springtime magazines. A screen is suspended on the wall above Jim’s head- like the TV screen, but bigger, flatter, and crisper. A peaking line tracks the rhythm of his heart, and there are other numbers and symbols besides that Jim can’t make heads or tails of.

A hospital, then? Why is he in a hospital? 

A man in a rich blue shirt strides in, looking at a flat piece of glass like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Maybe that’s what hospitals do- inscribe patients’ information on glass sheets. It seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through for something that could just as easily have been written down on paper, but city folk tend to be a little squirrely, so Jim can’t say for sure.

“Hey Bones,” he greets, and in return, he receives a scathing, grumpy glare. 

“What?”

“You know. Bones, like Sawbones.”

It’s how Mom always referred to her doctor-friends, in her few letters home.

“You can call me Dr. McCoy, got it?”

Ah. A southerner, judging by the weird accent. Jim hasn’t been any further south than Ainsworth, but he’s pretty sure there’s supposed to be some sort of famed politeness. All Jim’s getting is prickly annoyance. He grins. He likes this doctor already. 

“Sure, whatever you say, Doc.” Bones sets the glass down on a table in the corner of the room and pulls out a metal tray. On this tray, he sets a series of strange devices. Jim purses his lips. “Why am I here?” 

Last he checked, drunkenness was cured with a pail of water to the face, not a trip to some big-city hospital. Des Moines. It’s probably Des Moines.

“Well, we were hopin’ you could tell _us_. I’d bet you anything the commander’s gonna come see you himself, give you the third degree, but for now, you’re here in my sickbay getting over a case of intoxication.” He brings the tray over, and drops it. Wait, not- He doesn’t drop it. Or, he does. But it hovers there, like some magic string is holding it up. Jim stares. “Congratulations, you’re not dying.”

“Uh, thanks,” Jim ventures. “Say, what are those?” 

Bones lifts an eyebrow, picking up one of the tools. 

“These are hyposprays. Didn’t you ever get your basic vaccines?” 

“Well, yeah. I got all the shots I was s’posed to. But those aren’t shots.”

“Shots? What, with a needle? Who the hell stuck you with a needle? Needles. Of all the barbaric-” He trails off, grumbling to himself. “No shots. These are your xeno-vaccines, since your blood showed absolutely zero antibodies for anything important. Did you grow up in a bubble or something?”

Bones raises one of the hyposprays up to Jim’s neck, but Jim bats it away.

“No. Iowa,” he replies warily.

“Close enough. Now look, you need your vaccines before I can take you out of quarantine, okay? Ever heard of Cardassian Shingles? The Ipthoid Rash? Portle Plague?”

“Now you’re just makin’ things up.”

“I’ve got a logbook that says otherwise. Now hold _still_ , you infant.”

The noise the hypospray makes is probably worse than the sensation itself, but it’s new and strange to Jim. He flinches and yelps, rubbing at his neck as he glares at Bones. The doctor switches out a small cartridge in the hypospray.

“What, more?”

“Yes, _more_. There’re over four hundred and seventy three different diseases you’re supposed to be vaccinated for before you come up here, and you’ve been vaccinated for zero, according to your blood tests, and we can see here that you’re not immunocompromised, so suck it up and take the hypos.”

Jim yelp again as the next hypo hits home.

“I’ve gotta take five hundred of these things?” he hisses.

“No, you’ve gotta take six. Just six. They’re condensed. We’re almost halfway done already.”

Jim endures the next four hypos with the grace of a wet cat. He’s _sure_ he’s gotta be bleeding, but when he rubs his neck, his hand comes away clean. The skin just smarts and burns a little, is all. 

“I’m going to ask you some questions now, and you need to be honest, d’you hear me? We’re having trouble finding your biosignature in the registries, and in the meantime, we need a medical history. Or, I do. Now, what’s your name?”

“Jim Kirk.”

“Current age?”

“Twenty one.”

“Date of birth?”

“March 22, 1940.” 

Bones pauses, looks at Jim with furrowed brows.

“Say that again for me? I don’t think I caught that.”

“March twennysecon’, ninbtee- Wa’s hannen thu ma tun’?”

“Christ, you’ve got numb-tongue?”

“Num-tun?” 

Bones swears and bursts back to the hypospray cabinet. He pulls out a cartridge and clicks it in place, before jabbing it into Jim’s neck. If anything, though, the hypospray makes things worse. Jim pitches forwards, bracing his swelling hands on his knees. He feels hot and shakey, and to make matters much, much worse, his throat swells too. Jim gasps for air.

“Nurse!” 

There’s a hissing noise, and a blonde woman in the shortest goddamn dress Jim’s ever seen rushes in. If Jim hadn’t already been flushed red, he might have blushed. He certainly tries to avert his eyes, but the nurse is having none of it.

“Recovery position,” Bones barks, and the nurse snaps to attention, manhandling Jim into laying on his side, one knee bend and an arm tucked under his head. 

Bones reappears in Jim’s swimming vision with yet another hypospray, but this one- It’s a spray of blessed coolness, a drink of water in the desert. Bones releases the hypo into Jim’s neck, and immediately, he can breathe again. Jim sucks in a lungful of air, while Bones stares down at him with wide eyes.

“The solvent, I think,” he says to the blonde nurse as Jim closes his eyes. “He’s allergic to the solvent. You hear that, kid?” Bones pat’s Jim’s shoulder. “You’re allergic to a hypoallergenic solvent. You’re somethin’ else, that’s for sure.”

“Th’nks, Bones,” Jim croaks back, and he really must look a sight. Bones doesn’t even bother correcting him.

He’s allowed to rest, all questions put to the wayside for the moment, and thank god for that. Jim’s only ever had one other reaction- to the canned pears Mom sent him one year during the war- and that had left him feeling only a little less bone-crushingly exhausted than now. Bones commands bedrest, although much to the doctor’s exasperation, every time he enters what he calls the quarantine room, Jim is up and about, running his fingers over this, touching and poking that. There’s an observation window running the length of one wall, although Jim learns he can darken it by pressing this little glowing pad-thing. The first time he does this, Bones fixes the matter from the outside, looking harassed. The second and third times he comes in to yell at Jim, and by the fourth time, Jim’s just doing it to get a rise out of the doctor. Bones seems to figure this out pretty quick, so around the seventh time, he gives up.

By this point, Jim is hungry, and he’s not sure when mealtimes are in this hospital, or why he’s even still here. Being a little drunk isn’t fatal, and Jim didn’t even have a hangover. The allergic reaction’s cleared up, despite Bones saying he’s still being monitored, so Jim wants to get _out_.

He would have made a break for it, if he could have figured out how to open the door, but there’s no handle or knob, not even a latch or lock to find. 

Day three dawns- or, dawns as far as Jim can tell. There aren’t any windows to the outside in his room- and Jim is _starving_. Bones comes to see him with that stern, exasperated look on his face.

“Logs indicate you haven’t touched the replicators yet. Now look, Jim, if you’re scared of another allergic reaction, I’ll sit in here with you, but you’ve gotta eat _somethin’_.”

“Trust me, if I’d been given food, I would have eaten it.”

“Uh-huh. You’ve been pawing every goddamn surface in here, and you’re tryin’ to tell me you haven’t found the replicator?”

Jim gives him a blank look, and comprehension dawns on Bones’s face. 

“You don’t know what a replicator is. Damnit. _Damnit_ , Jim, you could have _asked_. We’re not tryin’a starve you!”

Bones seems to be just as frustrated with himself as he is with Jim, but the doctor leads Jim over to one of the narrower walls, where a silver-white niche is sided by another one of those glowy glass pads. The doctor takes Jim’s hand and places it flat on the pad. There’s a blink of light, and then Bones lets Jim drop his hand. The pad now holds a menu, and Bones guides Jim through navigating the options.

“You’re human, so you place your hand on the pad, alright? It scans your palmprint and biosignature, matches you with what you can eat. I’ll run an allergy panel on you once your body finishes processing the vaccines, and we’ll update the list of unsafe foods as needed. Once you pick what you want, you press here, and- There. Ready to eat.”

Jim stares at the plate of sausage and potatoes and eggs. Just- out of _nowhere_. It just, materialized.

“That’s not real,” Jim denies, making no move to collect the food. He looks over to Bones, who’s back to studying him like an indecipherable textbook. “It can’t be.”

God, it smells good.

“Well, while I’ll admit you could’ve picked something healthier, it’s definitely real.”

Bones grabs the plate and uses his other hand to steer Jim back to bed. He muscles the blonde into sitting down, then places another suspended tray over Jim’s lap. The plate goes on the tray, and Bones provides him with utensils. Jim, for his part, can’t bring himself to do anything but stare. 

His stomach gets the best of him. 

Jim picks up the fork and knife, cuts into one of the sausage links. He brings the piece to his mouth, chews, swallows. It’s _good_. Off, somehow. There’s the feeling of not-quite-right, but it’s _good_. 

To Bones’s apparent satisfaction, Jim tucks into his meal, and though the doctor cautions him on the dangers of overeating so quickly, he allows Jim to replicate one more plate of food as well. When Jim is done, the plates returned from whence they came (wherever _that_ is), Jim has questions.

“Where are we?” 

Because Jim sure as _fuck_ doesn’t think Des Moines has a hospital where food magically appears out of thin air.

Bones sighs. 

“I think we ought to wait for the Commander. He has some questions for you too.”

‘The Commander’ is a sandy-brown-haired man in a red shirt, with gold stripes around the ends of his sleeves. He introduces himself as “Commander Montgomery Scott, at your service”, but prefers to be called Scotty.

“You’re on the Starship Enterprise, lad,” is what he tells Jim.

“Bullshit,” is what Jim says back. 

Scotty sighs and fiddles his hands together in front of him. He’s missing a finger, Jim notes. 

“No, lad. You’re currently aboard Starfleet’s flagship. The stardate is 41350. Point four, as some aboard may tell you. You’re a long ways from home.”

“Is this some kind of joke? Did Frank put you up to this? No, wait. Frank doesn’t have enough money to pull off something like this. Look, commander? We just put a man on the moon. As in, about three days ago. How- Just, how? How can this be a ‘starship’, how can you make food just appear, and how- was I abducted or something?”

He vaguely remembers a glowing light, but not much else.

“What? No! Damnit Jim, we’re a science vessel, not a slaver ship.”

“There are two prevailing theories,” Scotty interjects. “Both involve the ion storm we attempted to avoid. A course was charted to steer out of its reaches, but the captain believes we may have encountered a trailing edge. Under the right conditions, theoretically this could lead to picking up or sending passengers from another time, or another dimension. One is more serious for our universe than the other.”

Jim digs his thumbs into his temples, kneading little circles. Time travel. Great. Is he hallucinating? Is all this just a whiskey-dream, spurred by too many scifi novels and a longing for the stars?

What if it’s real, a little voice questions. What if he really is- What if his days of dreaming are over. What if he’s been given the chance to live the dream?

“Which one is more serious?”

“Now, if you’re from our past, we have a problem. If you’re from the future or an alternate dimension, things’re simpler.”

“How do we figure out where I’m from, then?” 

Scotty straightens out his shirt.

“We kin compare our histories, see where things match up an’ where they don’. Dr. McCoy, if you would? I’m needed in engineering.”

Bones takes over from there. He provides Jim with a sheet of glass, which he calls a pad, and oh. _Oh_ , Jim is in _love_.

With the pad, he’s given unfettered access to public data banks. The next few days finds Jim curled up over the pad, devouring article after article, reading through text after text. Every time Bones comes in to check on him, Jim has another question, another paper to show. 

Why does this work? How do they know? You mean there are really aliens? There are really living planets other than Earth?

When Jim has his first encounter with an alien, he doesn’t notice, at first. He’s too busy trying to wrap his head around a new concept: the synthesis of new atoms from existing ones. He’s pretty sure Mr. Grant said that such a thing is called alchemy- the transmutation of one element to another- and therefore exists only in fantasy.

“Hey,” he greets absently, holding the pad above his face as he reclines on the bed. “I have a question for you. M’lon says here that they split magnesium into two carbon atoms. How the fuck does that even work? Wouldn’t you, I dunno- That’s what they did for the nuclear bomb, right? How do they do it without making a bomb?” 

He glances down his nose to see a dark-haired man with this stupid little bowl cut. He’s wearing a gold shirt, and his arms are clasped firmly behind his stiff back. Jim doesn’t really look further, turning his attention back to the pad. There’s some sort of animation detailing how the atomic splitting works, but Jim still wants an actual person’s explanation.

“Greetings, Mr.-” 

“Jim,” Jim corrects, pushing himself to sit upright. “I’m not- Mr. Kirk was my dad, and I’m not him. Just Jim.”

There’s this tiny tightening of the man’s lips, and- holy fuck. He has pointed ears. And now that he’s looking, Jim sees the green tint to his skin. Excitement bubbles up in him. So far, Bones and his nurses have all been human- something he’s pretty sure Bones is doing on purpose. But this guy- He’s an _alien_ , isn’t he?

“Oh wow, you’re- Where are you from?”

He can hardly contain himself, setting the pad down and rolling up to his feet. His blue eyes are wide and eager, but he keeps his distance. Not out of fear. No _way_ is he afraid. It’s just- respect. He’s been told he can be overwhelming in his enthusiasm. He doesn’t want to offend. 

The alien blinks those liquid brown eyes and tilts his head ever so slightly to the right. 

“I am Spock, captain of this ship. To answer your question, I am Vulcan. I-”

“Where’s that?” Jim asks, scrambling for his pad. “I’m sorry to- I’m just- This is amazing. Here, can you show me? I’m still- these star maps are hard to read.”

Jim brings the pad over. The crystal- because he’s learned it’s crystal, not glass- is already projecting a three-dimensional map of known star systems. Spock humors him and studies the map for a second at most before manipulating it to zoom in on one particular star system.

“My species originated around this star. However, our planet no longer exists. Presently the majority of my species resides here, on a planet known to most outworlders as New Vulcan.” 

The map shifts to a new, yellower star. Jim drinks it in.

“Why does Vulcan no longer exist? How did you pick a new planet? What’s it called by people who aren’t ‘outworlders’? Why-”

“You have many questions,” Spock observes, and Jim detects the faintest hint of bemusement.

“Well, yeah. I grew up in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. The guy who taught me science for most of my life could have gotten arrested just for teaching me evolution, and now I’m told I’m on a spaceship, and I have access to the answers to every question I could ever ask. Wouldn’t you be curious too?”

“Curiosity is a human emotion, and therefore not inherent to Vulcans.”

“Oh. Huh.”

Jim still doesn’t have the answers to four of the questions asked, but he figures it’s time to stop badgering the captain. For now.

He just- Those _ears_. They’re so-

Lickable is the first thing that pops into Jim’s head, and he nearly laughs out loud. 

Spock’s pale, angular cheeks flush a faint grassy color. Jim supposes his staring has been caught. He should probably stop.

But an _alien_ -!

As it turns out, Spock just wants to greet him in person, see the hitchhiker his ship’s picked up. His words are stiff and formal, but Jim’s eyes never leave his face, so he picks out all the tiny little microexpressions dancing over Spock’s lips and through his eyes. Jim makes nice, trying to curb his enthusiasm, but his original question still remains.

How do you conduct alchemy without creating a bomb?

Spock relents and sits down with Jim to explain, going on about Miruza’s Gel and the Laws of Probable Intensity, and all the while, Jim is making lists in his head of things to search next. What the explanation boils down to is this: the aforementioned gel holds any and all force exerted on it, making it a bank of force vectors. The splitting of magnesium occurs encased in this gel, and before the reaction is induced, a series of taps are exerted on the gel until the predicted opposite force of the reaction’s energy is reached. At that point, the nuclear reaction’s energy and heat and force outputs are neutralized by the gel.

“Impractical, but interesting,” is what Spock has to say on the matter.

Spock leaves Jim to his research, and the very next day, a woman comes.

Jim is more than a little startled, because she’s, well. She’s black. Not only that, but she has what he’s come to learn are command stripes around her long red sleeves. That’s not- usual.

At least, it isn’t usual in 1961. But this is the future, Jim reminds himself. Things are different.

“Hello, Miss…?” he drawls, because everyone greets him when they come in, so he figures he ought to greet them too.

“Lieutenant,” she replies cooly, and Jim winces. He’s definitely stepped in it. “Lieutenant Uhura.”

“Aw, fuck. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.” 

“Things are a little different now than they were in in the 1960s,” Lieutenant Uhura reminds him, as though guessing exactly where his mind first went. “Keep that in mind, and we won’t have any trouble. On to more pleasant matters, I hear you have quite the mind, Mr. Kirk.”

“Call me Jim,” he replies on instinct. 

“Kirk, then.” There’s a hint of a smile in her voice, but she remains as professional as before. 

Lt. Uhura makes him an offer, then. Lessons. Actual, structured lessons. Things copied from what she calls Starfleet Academy. Jim perks up instantly. As much fun as randomly browsing is, Jim leaps at the chance to be _taught_. He left school at 15, received only brief lessons in the evenings at the houses of three agreeable teachers after that. Given the opportunity to complete his education? Not only that, but complete it to the standards of the _future_?

Fuck yes. 

Lt. Uhura sets him up with the lessons, showing him how to access the files and in what order he ought to progress, and then she sits down, taking out another pad. As it turns out, she’s the one charged with interviewing Jim on his version of history.

They start with the turn of the century. Jim is quizzed on the president elected in 1900 (McKinley) the colloquial name of the 1920s (roaring twenties), the approximate year of the stock market crash (1929). Jim gives the date at which the US entered World War I (which he knows, exactly, because that was the same date Mom signed up for service as a nurse). There are questions Jim can’t answer, but the Space Race?

Oh, he knows _all_ about that. 

He knows the date Sputnik went up, knows the date the dogs were sent. He knows the dates of every Apollo launch, know exactly what day Buzz and Neil were meant to set foot on the moon. Lt. Uhura frowns, as he gives her all those dates.

“What? I’m _sure_ those are right.”

“According to ship’s record’s, the moon landing took place in the year 1969.”

“It was definitely 1961.”

“Well then, that makes all this much easier to figure out then, doesn’t it?”

She leaves him with a smile. Jim opens up the pad provided, searching for lesson one.

When Jim pauses, every now and then, to eat or rest his tired mind, he explores the pad’s games. So far, the only thing he even vaguely recognizes is chess, but this chess takes place on seven boards, stacked on top of each other. He plays against the computer at its easiest setting, but uh- yeah. He’s still getting the hang of it. 

Spock comes back a few days later, while Jim is in the middle of one of his matches. He’s not doing a poorly as he could be, so Jim counts that as a victory, but he flips the pad into sleep mode when the Vulcan walks in.

“What’s shakin’?” he greets, grinning. 

Spock cocks his head, one of those eyebrows lifting.

“‘Shaking’?” he repeats.

“It means- nevermind. How are you?”

Another long pause.

“I believe an acceptable answer would be ‘well’. I am well.” A beat of silence. “And you?”

Jim grins at the awkward conversation they’re making.

“I’m great, Spock. Thanks for asking!” he chirps.

Spock blinks owlishly, before shaking his head minutely as though to clear it. 

“I am here to discuss your presence aboard this ship in regards to how you are here, and what our goals will be moving forward.” He waits a moment before continuing onward, as though giving Jim a tiny window of opportunity to interrupt. Jim smiles, inexplicably fond. “As Commander Scott likely told you, approximately sixteen point one three standard days prior to this date, scanners indicated the presence of an ion storm in the path of the Enterprise’s trajectory. We set a course to avoid the storm, and according to all sensors the Enterprise remained well out of the ion storm’s range. However, given your appearance, we believe a trailing edge of the storm came into contact with the Enterprise. While this theory is largely unsubstantiated, you are here, and such a movement through time or, indeed, through alternate universes is theoretically impossible without a catalyst.”

“That’s a lot of words to say ‘We’re still not sure, but we’ll blame it on the ions,” Jim teases, and Spock’s lips twitch. “So have you come to a decision? Am I from the past or another universe?”

Either would be _awesome_.

“As of yet we are uncertain. Certain key dates provided by you do not match up with those on record. However, such discrepancies can be explained by the shift in dating systems taking place at various time points or inaccurate interpretations of physical records. While knowing your origin would likely aid us in returning you, we-”

“No! What? Return me?” Jim is appalled, feeling horribly like the rug has just been pulled out from under him. Return him? Take away this- this- Bones says he is required to stay in quarantine for at least two weeks after receiving his vaccines, to allow his body to produce the required antibodies and prevent him from dying of something like the modern cold as soon as he steps out of sickbay, but after- He had thought he would stay, thought that was why Lt. Uhura provided him with the recorded lessons. “Spock, no.” The Vulcan twitches as Jim’s informal dismissal of his rank. “Listen, _please_ , all my life I’ve dreamed of the stars. Since before I even knew it was possible to leave the Earth, my place? I knew it was _out there_. That I was meant for the _sky_ , Spock. And now it’s finally within reach, don’t you see?” It’s been driving him absolutely mad, knowing he’s on a _space ship_ and yet being unable to see the _stars_. It’s why he’s thrown himself so wholeheartedly into learning. But still. They’re _there_. “Please. _Please_ Spock. Don’t send me back.”

Spock has this pinched look at the corners of his eyes, but he clasps his arms behind his back.

“I apologize, Mr. Kirk, but if allowing you to remain damages our timeline in any way, then you cannot be allowed to stay. I will make no promises until I am entirely certain you being here will not cause strife in this time.”

And that’s that, isn’t it? Jim’s shoulders slump. So there’s a 50:50 chance he’s going to be rejected, sent back far away, to work Frank’s farm and repair tractors his whole goddamn life. 

Spock hesitates, his mouth open to say something, but it closes again after a moment. He turns and leaves Jim to wallow in his downward mood swing.

\--------------

Two days later, Bones discharges him.

Jim submits to exit testing, and receives an appointment time for his allergy panel, and once he’s out of hospital scrubs and into a sleek black shirt and pants, he’s free.

“Oh, by the way,” Bones tosses out as he signs off on Jim’s form. “Captain wants to see you on the observation deck.”

“That’s great and all, but Bones, I don’t have a clue where the observation deck is. I don’t know where any deck is.” 

Bones rolls his eyes and sets the pad down. 

“Alright, come on, you infant. I’ll play tour guide.”

Jim trails around after Bones like a duckling, and it’s a very good thing that Bones is being uncharacteristically patient with him, because lord only knows how distracted Jim is. 

“What’s this?”

“What’s that?”

“How does that work?”

“What does that do?”

By the end of their little trip, Jim is asking questions as much to press Bones’s buttons as to genuinely learn, but Bones just smiles at him in a way that has Jim more than a little concerned.

“Close your eyes,” he says, when they stop outside a closed door.

“No.”

“Don’t be an infant, Jim. Close your eyes and trust me, alright?”

Jim gives Bones a long, wary look, but he does as directed, eventually. The door in front of them hisses open, and Bones steers Jim with a hand on his back. When Bones finally lets Jim stop, he is _thoroughly_ disoriented. Bones lets go, and if Jim strains he can hear footsteps backing away. The door hisses open again behind him, and after a long, long moment, it hisses shut again.

“You may open your eyes, Mr. Kirk.”

Jim’s head whips around as his eyes open, and he’s- well. He’s more than a little surprised to see Spock standing right beside him. The Vulcan has his arms clasped behind his back, and despite the dark of the room behind them, he’s illuminated in red and gold and blue.

Which draws Jim’s attention to what’s in front of him.

It seems to be a large window, 50 feet by 15 feet, at _least_. It’s perfectly clear, and on the other side-

Jim’s mouth falls open, and step by slow step, he approaches the window. He presses his palm to the clear, cool surface.

On the other side is a wash of _color_. Red and gold and blue, in clouds and streams. Through the shining colors, Jim can see _stars_ , shining blue and red and yellow and white. He swallows, eyes wide, and _stares_. 

He doesn’t have the words- 

“We have found no record of anyone bearing your name from the time period specified,” Spock announces, his voice low and rumbly. “Given your reluctance to return to your universe, I have been authorized to allow you aboard the Enterprise until such time as the Federation and, more specifically, Starfleet decides how best to integrate you into modern society.”

Jim wants to _cry_. He rests his forehead against the window, feeling the chill seep into his skin, but he doesn’t _care_. His entire field of vision is consumed by the nebula and the plane of stars: a sight he dreamed of every night since before he could remember. A sight he was told he would never see. 

Jim knows, without knowing how he knows, that Spock silently leaves at some point, but he can’t tear his eyes away. He sinks down to sit cross-legged in front of the window, and even when the room’s lights come back on and the ship pulls away to soar off and away, when the stars become blurs, he remains transfixed. It’s only Lt. Uhura tapping on his shoulder that snaps Jim out of his awed focus.

“I’m surprised you’re still here, Kirk,” Lt. Uhura observes, a smile in her voice despite the no-nonsense expression on her face. “It’s been four hours. I wasn’t aware you could sit still for so long.”

Jim glances up at her, a dopey smile on his face. 

“I’ve never been so close to the stars, is all. It’s-” He whistles low, shaking his head as his eyes go soft. “I’ve dreamed of this, Lt. Uhura. It’s all I _ever_ dreamed of.”

“Well you’re getting in the way,” she prods gently, and Jim laughs. The room is empty save for another woman in a red shirt standing at attention some ways away. “Come on. I’m head of security on this ship, and you’re the least-threatening security breach we’ve had in a while. I’ll show you where you’ll stay and go over procedure with you.” 

Lt. Uhura stands back as Jim pulls himself up to his feet. Jim stretches his back. 

The other woman in red falls in behind them as Lt. Uhura strides purposefully through the white halls. Jim glances over his shoulder at her, again and again, trying to figure out why she’s following them. Lt. Uhura takes him by the sleeve and faces him forwards again.

“This is Petty Officer Ma’al. You will have a security officer posted with you at all times, to help you navigate around the ship and keep you out of trouble. P.O. Ma’al has the first rotation. Don’t gawk. It isn’t 1960 anymore, remember?”

Jim nods obediently, and Lt. Uhura’s lips twitch upwards as she tries to swallow a smile. 

He’s taken to a small room with a sliding door, about ten paces by five. There are two beds present, two desks, two of each piece of sleek furniture, really.

“I have a roommate?” Jim asks, exploring his apparent quarters. 

“No. We’ve gone through room-change requests and moved crewman around, so here you are. You do share the head with two crewmen, and I will warn you and say one of them is not human. Please be tactful. I know you have already seen Captain Spock, but not all of our crewmen are so similar in appearance to the humans you’re familiar with.” 

Jim sits down on the bed, grinning as he bounces. The mattress is a far sight nicer than anything he’d had in Riverside. 

Lt. Uhura takes her leave after informing Jim that he is to go nowhere without his escort, that he is not to interfere with any crewman on duty, but that he is not forbidden from being companionable.

So he does his best to be _companionable_.

There’s always a security officer following him around, so he gets to know them. Learns their names. Their species. He learns where exactly in the mapped galaxy they’re from, and what he should and shouldn’t do to get along. He eagerly greets Lt. Uhura when he sees her in the halls, meets a bizarre little grey-green guy called Keenser- Commander Scott’s best friend, apparently. There’s a, uh- There’s this Russian kid, younger than even Jim himself, who literally stumbles into Jim one morning- shoved out of some purple-skinned girl’s quarters, his shirt thrown out after him. Through Pavel- Chekov as everyone calls him- he meets Hikaru Sulu, and fuck, but he likes Sulu. After all, Hikaru has control of the botany labs.

Pavel brings him to the botany labs almost immediately after he runs into Jim. He greets Hikaru with a hug, and for a wild moment he thinks Pavel and Hikaru are- sweeties. Which he knows is fine now, but he’d just- he assumed Pavel was unattached, given the semi-undressed state the kid had been in when he’d left the girl’s quarters. 

Does he say anything? Does he keep his mouth shut? What does he do?

Well, Pavel laughs at him. 

“Hikaru is married,” the kid insists. “And I am wery wery uninterested in men.” 

“You have a wife?”

“Husband,” Hikaru corrects. Jim doesn’t comment, just nods.

It’s a difficult thing to wrap his mind around. For various reasons. Not a bad thing, but a difficult one. He can’t help but remember the first and only boy he’d ever kissed, Bo Renner. The boy who’d been hog-tied behind the Louisons’ ½ ton pickup truck and dragged out of town not two weeks later.

Jim had been fourteen, and terrified that he’d be next, but no one ever came for him. Bo hadn’t said a word. He’d kept his attention on girls after that, and never saw Bo again.

He says none of this, however. It’s just not something you talked about in Riverside.

“So what’s this one eat?”

“Xelation writheworms. Frozen first.”

“Of course. Is there any other way to feed- what were they? Zelashon Rideworms?”

Hikaru laughs at him, but retrieves a bowl of dead, thawed whatever he said.

“Close enough.”

They feed the bizarre thing that Hikaru assures him to be a carnivorous plant from a planet Jim can’t pronounce, and Pavel and Jim take up cajoling Jim’s accompanying security officer to join them. It works, and the four of them pick out slimy, multi-headed purple things with tongs to feed to the plant.

He’s on an honest to christ starship, in the reaches of space, feeding alien worms to an alien plant. With an alien space-officer keeping him out of trouble. 

He’s still not sure this is real. How could it be? Jim has been given everything he ever dreamed of and then some. A poisonous voice inside him says there's no way it'll last, but Jim tries to ignore it. Tries. Because if this is all going to be snatched away, he'll be damned if he doesn't make the most of the time he has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give me likes! Give me comments! Give me impulse control! Give me more time to prepare for my microbiology test!
> 
> I've read plenty of Star Trek fanfiction, but I've never written any before now. Fingers crossed for acceptable characterization.
> 
>  
> 
> Spock: I am a perfectly logical being  
> Jim: *Talks science*  
> Spock: Oh fuck


	5. Let Me Play Among the Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter this time, but here you go.
> 
> Also, I apparently posted this chapter twice. Yikes. Sorry for that!

Ensign Clark doesn’t play chess, which Jim thinks is a damn shame. The Grazerite (half Grazerite, Clark confessed without prompting) merely sits across the table, engaging himself with some sort of puzzle composed of a knot of interlocking metal bands. Apparently, the goal is to form a perfect, unbroken sphere from the tangle.

Jim, meanwhile, focuses on the projected three-dimensional chess board as he plays against the computer. He’s chosen the easiest setting, and he has a feeling that this time, he’ll win. He’s been practicing.

“So tell me about Grazer. You say that’s your homeworld?”

“My mother’s homeworld,” Clark corrects. The permanent scowl etched into his face would be off-putting, but Ensign Clark seems to have a phenomenal sense of humor. “Dad was a human, and I grew up on a starbase. Only visited Grazer four times, to see my grandma. The main landmass circles around the equator, so it’s pretty hot. The buildings and settlements are mostly built underground, did you know that?”

“I didn’t.” He moves a pawn up one level and watches the computer make its move. “Why’s that?”

“I was told it’s because the oldest cities were built in the grass plains, and building underground was the best way to escape wildfires.”

“No shit?”

“None at all,” Clark laughs. 

Three weeks have passed since Jim’s sudden arrival on the Enterprise. He’s managed to befriend, at least casually, all six of his assigned security officers. They rotate in eight-hour shifts. A sudden thought strikes him.

“Thanks for babysitting me,” Jim laughs, and Clark glances up at him to grin back.

“Easiest job I’ve had since boarding the Enterprise,” Clark replies. “I get to sit here and play with puzzles all shift.”

“An interesting occupation of your time, Ensign Clark,” a now-familiar voice comments coolly, and Clark immediately snaps up to attention, the chair nearly toppling from under him in his haste.

“Captain,” Clark acknowledges, and Jim rolls his eyes.

“Relax Spock. He’s doing his job, keeping me out of trouble.” 

Jim’s eyes slide back to the chess set as the computer makes its move. Knight to one of those small platforms. Whatever they’re called. Hmm.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Spock says, “Ensign Clark, I would like a moment to speak with Mr. Kirk in private.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Clark steps briskly away.

“Computer, please save this game for later,” Jim says. When the computer does so and the chess set flicks away, he tacks on, “Thank you.” Spock remains standing stiffly, his arms clasped behind his back, and Jim runs a hand through his hair. The silent watching is making him more than a little nervous. “Um. Do you wanna sit down?” he ventures. 

The little tilt of the captain's head as he considers Jim’s question reminds him of the autumn crows- the way they’d regard Jim when he tried to feed them hard-boiled eggs. Unlike the birds, though, Spock takes Jim up on his offer.

He sits across the table, claiming Clark’s spot with a weirdly stiff feline grace. If grace can be stiff. Spock seems to make it possible. He rests his hands on the edge of the table.

“I was unaware of your interest in chess,” Spock begins. 

Jim seizes on the factual statement as an invitation. Better than awkward silence.

“Oh, yeah. My Gramma taught me normal chess. I’ve been teaching myself this version when I have time.” 

Spock’s mouth twitches.

“Is time in short supply for you?”

“I mean, sort of. I guess? Lt. Uhura set me up with some learning modules from Starfleet Academy, but I sort of need the background first. I’ve been trying to get myself on level with, y’know, kids. There’s a lot to learn in the future.”

“Preliminary diagnostics placed you on level with a fifth-grade human child.”

“Oh gee, thanks,” Jim laughs.

“I did not mean to insult you. I simply refer to the disparity in the quality of education between our times. That is-”

“Spock.” Jim leans back in his chair, unable to wipe the grin off his face. “Relax. I get it. No offense taken.”

Spock’s mouth opens, and then closes. Jim mercifully lets him consider his options.

“Would you be amenable to a game of chess?”

Jim blinks owlishly. Okay. Uh- Not what he was expecting?

“Uh, yeah. Sure. I mean, you’re gonna have to take it easy on me, but- yeah. Why not?”

Jim, of course, loses. Of _course_ he does. But it’s fun, and he draws more than one instance of that eyebrow ticking up in bafflement, which Jim counts as a win. There isn’t much talking, but when Spock declares checkmate, he also adds, “This was enjoyable.”

“Yeah, it was.” 

And that’s not an empty platitude. The relative silence was weird, to be perfectly honest, but there’s something- nice. Something nice about Spock. The silence was weird, but not awkward. Jim can roll with that.

Another weird silence stretches. Jim can see Clark leaning against the wall, chatting up an alien in blue, but he brings his attention back to Spock, and offers a small- but genuine- smile.

“I possess a physical tri-dimensional chess set,” the Vulcan announces, but he doesn’t really follow up with anything else. Instead, he opens his mouth, then closes it again with a click. He stands smoothly. “If you will excuse me.”

Spock steps around the table, but Jim turns in his seat and rises to follow him.

“Hey, wait. Uh.” He has Spock’s full attention. “Maybe we can play on your set next time. Just- lemme know when you have the time, okay? My schedule’s pretty open.”

The Vulcan responds with a tight nod.

“I will contact you with a proposed date and time. Mr. Kirk.”

“Yeah, sounds good. Contact me.”

Jim can’t resist poking fun at the phrasing. Spock either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind. He nods again, and leaves. 

And that’s that. No one has ever accused Jim of having difficulty making friends. 

They set a date for their next chess match. Jim doesn’t doubt that he’ll lose that one too, but he’ll figure things out in time. In the interim, Jim is cleared to walk around without an escort. That doesn’t mean he’s left perfectly unsupervised. No, instead he’s given another round of tests, and an amended set of learning modules. He’s also assigned a rotation in various departments. Week-long blocks of time in which Jim is meant to shadow various crewmembers. To get a feel for modern physical and social sciences, as well as expose Jim to possible pathways to take if he ever gets off the ship. From what he gathers, they’re trying to prepare Jim to integrate with society, while also remaining cautious about the possibility of having to send Jim back. 

He’ll be starting off with the Quartermaster. It’s sort of boring, to Jim, but he very clearly sees the necessity of the small group of people charged with the logistics of equipment and supply distribution. So yeah. He’s there for a week, and then he moves to the synthetic chemistry department. He mainly observes there. Washes some glassware. Takes some notes. He isn’t in any way qualified to actually interact with any of the equipment, and he very well knows this, so he can’t complain. It’s fucking awesome to watch, though. Sometimes. Other times it’s boring, but an Arcadian whose name Jim can’t quite pronounce correctly shows Jim how to take a milky, bitter tasting drink from the replicator and turn it a deep, dark purple without affecting its edibility. Jim thinks it tastes disgusting, but the scientist seems to enjoy the flavor.

Still. Gross. 

He’s pulled out of his chemistry rotation by Bones, about four days in. 

“Am I due for a checkup? Is it time for my allergy panel? What’s the big idea, Bones?”

“Oh just shut up for one goddamn minute, alright?” he grouses. “I’m doin’ you a favor. You’ll thank me later.”

“Uh huh.”

Jim is skeptical, but Bones glances over at him and rolls his eyes.

“We’re in orbit around a planet we haven’t explored before. I’m due on the landing party in an hour, but I figured you’d wanna see it while you’ve got the chance.”

“Oh. _Oh._ Really?”

Bones ruffles Jim’s hair, and Jim makes a half-hearted sound of protest. 

“Yeah, really. Now move your ass. I’m on a schedule here.”

“You have a whole hour!”

“I thought I toldja t’shut your goddamn mouth.”

Jim does _not_ shut his goddamn mouth. Because come _on_. This is amazing! It’s like seeing the nebula again! Like watching the stars from _among_ them! He’s going to see an alien planet!

Bones takes him to the rear observation lounge this time. It’s a little smaller than the one Jim usually visits, the one he watched the nebula from. There are a few crewmembers gathered around the viewing wall, and Jim rapidly goes to join them.

The planet drifts serenely below them, huge and dusky purple. Darker blue-violet masses- oceans, according to one crewmember in blue, span the edges of what’s visible. Jim naturally sticks out like a sore thumb, even among the off-duty crewmen in their casuals, and he soon finds himself sharing a pad with a human woman, going over the scan data already made available to the general crew. 

“I- There’s a mountain made of diamond. How does that even happen?”

Jim is holding the pad now, devouring the information regarding the diamond ranges towards the southern pole. He thinks his mom had- has?- a wedding ring with a diamond on it. His dad apparently saved up in secret for three years to buy her a diamond. Jim’s just never seen it. Or, he probably has, but he doesn’t remember it. To be perfectly honest, he doesn’t fully remember what Winona even looks like. It had just been so long since she’d visited. 

Whatever. Sidetracked. Diamond mountain.

“I don’t really know,” P.O. Rebecca admits. “I mean, I know there would have had to be a carbon deposit under extreme pressure, which makes sense given its location at a fault line, but where did all that carbon come from?”

“Random chance?” Jim suggests.

“Maybe. Wow. I hope the landing party brings back holos.”

A sentiment Jim shares. He wants to see it _all_.

Bones had ducked out after saying goodbye to Jim. _He_ at least did promise to try and bring Jim a picture or two. Maybe a selfie, if he’s feeling generous. That isn’t a term Jim is familiar with, but he’ll figure it out eventually.

The landing party returns several hours later with their first round of gathered data, and the ship comes alive. Jim returns to the chemistry labs. He isn’t _extremely_ useful, but he certain does his best. The Arcadian- who takes pity on Jim and says Jim can call him Mo- analyzes soil samples, and patiently explains what everything means.

It’s cool. It’s fun. Jim enjoys himself. 

He wanders down to the Med Bay when Mo’s shift ends- and by extension, Jim’s does as well. 

“Get off the damn table,” Bones gripes. Jim grins, and kicks his legs like a child as he remains firmly planted on the examination table. “I’m serious, kid. Act your age, not your goddamn shoe size.”

“What was it like? Were there people? Did you-”

Bones strides across the floor and mashes his palm against Jim’s mouth.

“Just shut the fuck up, alright?” Bones hisses. 

Jim’s eyes are wide. He doesn’t- He isn’t sure what he did wrong. Bones doesn’t normally actually react badly to Jim’s playful harassment. 

Bones lets go, and scrubs the other hand across his stubbled jaw. 

“Sorry. _Sorry_.” 

Bones backs off, and Jim slides off the table, belatedly obeying Bones’s command.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. C’mere.”

Jim follows Bones into his office, and the doctor locks the door behind them. He rummages through his desk, and pulls out a weirdly-shaped orange bottle.

“Saurian brandy,” Bones explains as he fishes a pair of mismatched glasses from another shelf. “I need a drink.” He pours them each a splash of liquor, and moments later he drops heavily into his chair. The liquor vanishes into Bones’s mouth in one gulp, and he pours another glass. “Shouldn’t’a snapped at you. That’s on me.”

“It’s fine.” Jim sniffs the drink, and wrinkles his nose at the scent. “Don’t worry about it.”

Bones gestures with his glass.

“See that’s the issue. I can’t stop worrying about any- _goddamn_ -thing. Space is disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence, and I just got dissolved, hurtled through emptiness, and reassembled not once, but twice, and I forgot my goddamn meds today, so yeah. I don’t have alotta fucks t’give. I’m sorry you got caught in the crossfire. Don’t gotta excuse for that.” 

“Meds?”

“Anxiety. I know you guys didn’t practice holistic medicine back in your day, but-” He cuts himself off, and takes a smaller sip of his drink. Jim joins him this time. The smell wasn’t exactly appealing, but the liquor is spicy and earthy. “Sorry.”

“I’m not mad, Bones. You didn’t hurt my feelings,” Jim teases. “I just didn’t realize you hate space so much.”

“It fucking sucks.”

Jim leans against the wall, and sips the brandy. They drink in silence for a moment, before Jim says: “Do you want to be alone?”

Bones sighs, and grinds the heel of one palm against his closed eye, before he drops his hand to his lap and shakes his head. 

“Nah. I took a selfie for you. Don’t want that t’go t’waste.” 

Bones still has a tenseness to his shoulders, a furrow in his brow, Jim doesn’t know how to help. Maybe distracting himself is Bones’s prefered way of handling his anxiety.

Turns out, a selfie is just a word for a picture you took of yourself. Jim _also_ learns what is means to ‘photobomb’, thanks to some of the other landing party members making faces in the background without Bones’s knowledge. Apart from the single selfie- which Bones promises to give to Jim as a holo- there are pictures of scenery. An insect-lizard-looking thing basking on a tree branch. A flower being carefully handled with gloves. An undulating ribbon-like creature gliding from one point to another. The picture that most captivates Jim, however, is the sunset shot. The one with crewmembers silhouetted on a hilltop, as the sky flames gold and red behind them. Jim recognizes the severe posture of Spock immediately.

“Space is the worst kinda hell, but these planets?” Bones swirls the liquor around in his glass. “They’re rare little jewels.”

Jim’s eyes remain on the sunset.

“Do you think I could come with you next time?”

“I dunno kid. We can ask, but I don’t think there’s much chance of that happening. You aren’t trained. You aren’t really part of the crew. I mean- Yeah. We can ask. I just don’t think you should get your hopes up.”

Which is disappointing. Honestly. Bones says nothing that isn’t true, though. Jim looks up at Bones, and holds out his glass.

“To the rare little jewels.”

Bones huffs a laugh, but clinks his glass against Jim’s.

“To the jewels.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a little humorous comment on Spock’s mentality for the last chapter, so check out those endnotes if you want.
> 
> And again with Bones: I would apologize for the rampant contractions, but I say all his lines out loud to make sure it sounds like what a Georgian like myself would say, and that’s what comes out.


End file.
